April 20, 2000

5 Years After Terrorist Act, a Memorial to the 168 Victims

By JIM YARDLEY

KLAHOMA CITY, April 19 --
The moment came, as it does every
morning, when the clock moved from
9:01 to 9:02, but unlike every morning the changing minute brought silence here today. Silence up the gentle slope of Fifth Street, where thousands of people stared down at a
huge bronze gate that stood like an
entrance to a tomb.

Behind the gate lay the new Oklahoma City National Memorial, built
on the grounds of the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building, where five
years ago at that minute on this day
a yellow Ryder truck exploded. The
bombing of the federal office building took 168 lives, and now those who
had gathered in their memory offered 168 seconds of silence.

A police radio crackled. A young
mother shushed her baby.

Finally, there came church bells
and four fighter jets roaring out of
the gray skies overhead. Then came
the names, all 168, each read slowly
over a microphone by survivors of
the blast as well as others. The crowd
on Fifth Street began to stir. With
each name, a family rose, and then
another and another, all of them
moving slowly toward the gate to
enter the memorial.

"Oh, it's hard," said Bobby Altstatt, a police chaplain wearing dark
sunglasses as he greeted some of the
family members passing by. "It's
why these glasses are on. I don't
want to be seen crying."

Later in the day, at the official
dedication of the Oklahoma City National Memorial, President Clinton
led elected officials in paying tribute
to the victims of the worst act of
domestic terrorism in the nation's
history.

"We may never have all the answers for what happened here," Mr.
Clinton said.

"But as we continue
our journey toward understanding,
one truth is clear: What was meant
to break us has made you stronger."

Mr. Clinton, who visited here four
days after the bombing, said the memorial would serve as a reminder to
all Americans of the tragedy that
occurred on April 19, 1995.

"I know there are still days when
the old anger wells up inside you,"
the president said, "and still days
when tears fill your eyes, when you
feel your heart will break. On those
days in the future, I hope you can
come here and find solace here, in
the memory of your loved ones and
the honor of your fellow citizens."

The morning gathering had been
described as the "private" dedication for survivors, rescuers and families of the victims. And even with
cameras televising the event across
the country, it still somehow seemed
private, even intimate.

On every anniversary of the bombing, people have gathered to honor
the dead, so in that regard today was
no different. But in years past there
was only a chain-link fence here. The
fence became a shrine, a place where
visitors left letters and photographs,
or teddy bears for the 19 children
killed.

Now, family members waited to
pass through the bronze gate to a
field below with 168 stone chairs,
each engraved with the name of a
victim. One man carried a bouquet
and a Cookie Monster doll. A young
woman carried a yellow wreath encircling a photograph of a smiling
young man, a husband or a brother
lost.

Officer Altstatt stood and watched.
In the weeks after the bombing, he
helped identify victims and console
grieving families. He also counseled
people whose loved ones remained
missing for weeks in the rubble, including the family of Christy Rosas.
She had worked on the third floor,
and her body was not found until the
building was imploded about a
month after the bombing. When
searchers later found Ms. Rosas, Officer Altstatt was there.

So this morning, as Christy Rosas's family waited to enter the memorial, Officer Altstatt reached over
to say hello to her husband. They live
within a mile of one another but had
been strangers until the bombing.
Now, he said he considered them as
family.

"I just don't know how some of
these folks can do this," he said.

Behind the gate, after the ceremony, families stood beside the empty
stone chairs. Police officers, firefighters and other rescuers stood in
formation beside the long, dark reflecting pool built where Fifth Street
once ran in front of the building. The
pool divides the field of chairs from
the old elm that survived the blast,
now known as the Survivors' Tree.
Many people walking on the memorial's new grass carried small pots
with seedlings from the tree to be
planted across Oklahoma.

Ruth Heald Schwab, surrounded
by her four children, stood and remembered. She does not know why,
but she was one of the lucky ones.
She had worked on the eighth floor,
and she lost her right eye in the
explosion. Plastic surgery repaired
the damage from the 200 stitches to
her face. But that day she walked out
of the building, and on this morning
she could only cry.

"This is very peaceful," Mrs.
Schwab said. "Now we go forward.
Now that we know this is here, we
cannot ever forget; we don't even
want to forget."

She smiled as her children waited
to leave. When asked, she admitted
she would probably not return often.
Today was important, but hard.

"No, no," she said softly. "I can't.
It took me quite a while before I
could even drive by. But I've worked
through that. I hope."